


Jaime's Game

by catherineflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jaime Tops Out From the Bottom, Smut, Winterfell Domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29355042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers
Summary: “Perhaps you should tie me to the bed?”Jaime says this so casually, so offhand, as he’s pulling off his boots and adjusting his socks around his toes by the fire, that Brienne almost does what she’s done the other four times he’s mentioned it; she almost laughs.But, there it is. Four times.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 27
Kudos: 137
Collections: The Exchange that was Promised: Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021





	Jaime's Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brynnmck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/gifts).



> Thank you @brynnmck for the prompt:
> 
> Prompt 1: Bondage - feel free to tie up either one of them, I don't really have a preference :D
> 
> Reader, I went with Jaime.

“Perhaps you should tie me to the bed?”

Jaime says this so casually, so offhand, as he’s pulling off his boots and adjusting his socks around his toes by the fire, that Brienne almost does what she’s done the other four times he’s mentioned it; she almost laughs.

But, there it is. Four times.

She’d only said, teasingly, that he liked more than his fair share of the furs at night. It’s not even relevant.

Brienne sits by the fire, too, her feet outstretched to warm her snow-numbed toes, spooning a half-congealed bowl of stew she’d scrounged from the kitchens into her mouth. It’s been a busy day, a busy week.

Daenerys Targaryen has just gone south, taking most of Winterfell’s forces with her. Guard rotations have needed to be changed, gaps plugged. Armour and weapons reallocated. Things have needed to be organised.

Brienne looks up to where Jaime sits. He’s taken the chair – really she should get another one, there’s room for two around this table, but that feels slightly like an admission that he has moved in. Which he _has_ , sort of, but neither of them has actually said it aloud. At least they’ve stopped the pretence of her retiring to her room by herself and then him knocking on her door ten minutes later. That was silly.

There’s no shame here – they are adults—both highborn. Once the war is over, they could wed if they wanted to.

Brienne pushes that thought to one side; it is not a thought for this evening.

Jaime has fallen silent now. A couple of weeks ago, she would have thought this uncharacteristic and worried that he was brooding on something. But she has come to realise that this is still Jaime; it’s just Jaime in Winterfell. He is not near so garrulous when he’s sitting by her fire, when he’s eating dinner at her table, when he’s wrapped in her arms in her bed.

There’s a peace about him, a level of comfort. It’s quite new.

They are both quite terrible at this, she thinks. Communicating the things that they want. Brienne likes directness, but Jaime isn’t good at being direct, not about his own desires. It scares him, shuts him down.

Brienne isn’t good at reading between the lines or picking up on things he doesn’t say. Jaime dithers and hints and teases and blusters, and Brienne is utterly oblivious until he’s practically beating her about the face with what he wants.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s no-one’s his fault, of course—just the way they were raised. Selwyn Tarth could never bear duplicity of any kind, but Jaime is used to playing games – it’s practically a Lannister birthright. Not to mention that mutual manipulation in a relationship is all he’s known. And Brienne, of course, has never known a relationship at all. Since getting together, the two of them have mostly blundered at each other until something clicked.

“So is that … something you would like?” Brienne asks when she has finished her meal and put her bowl on the table.

“What?” he’s already deflecting, already pretending. She thinks he knows what she means. Of course he does.

“If I were to tie you to the bed?”

Both his eyebrows shoot for his hairline.

She steps over him, a thigh either side of the chair. Sits down on his lap, so they are face-to-face. He kisses her.

He’s feigning nonchalance, but he’s aroused – she’s sitting on the evidence right now.

“Perhaps,” he says as he nuzzles her lips with his. “It might make for a better evening than that dreadful Fool the Northerners find so amusing.”

“Dimples? You don’t find his japes amusing, my Lord?”

“Strangely, no. While he performs, I find myself preoccupied with thoughts of things I should rather be doing. Like cleaning stones from my horse’s hooves, or mucking out the privy pits. Or being tied to a bed.”

He is teasing, of course—distracting Brienne from his own excitement. Embarrassed by it.

Brienne says nothing.

Jaime distracts her further – he brings his hand between them to open her shirt, pulling it open one tie at a time. He rolls his thumb in small circles on the skin he exposes, then dips his head to kiss the skin he’s just stroked. He has warm, moist lips.

Brienne allows herself to be distracted, for a time.

Later, after he has shattered her with his fingers and his mouth, after he has spilt on her belly and licked up every drop with his tongue, they lie together in the dark beneath the furs, holding hands.

Brienne feels so full. It’s sometimes hard to believe that she and Jaime were not always lovers – this seems so natural and so easy. It’s also hard to believe this has happened at all.

“If I were to tie you to the bed,” she asks, her voice barely audible above the snap and crackle of the fire, “why would you want that?”

Jaime stiffens, as he always does when Brienne is direct. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“Have you done it before?” she asks when she can stand the silence no longer.

“No.”

“Then ... is it because it is _me_?”

Again, he doesn’t answer.

“I am ... big. For a woman. Sometimes, men want me to hurt them.”

“What men?” Of course he would be jealous.

“Men. Just men. Soldiers sometimes, or men in taverns or on the road. Men who see me. Sometimes they make jokes or ... or sometimes not jokes, perhaps.”

“What kind of jokes?”

“’Step on me’ is a favourite. Jokes about me holding them down or sitting on them. Being violent towards them in an erotic way. Like Tormund Giantsbane did.”

“You don’t like that.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not how I want to be … it’s not who I am.”

He looks away. “It’s not that. Not for me.”

Brienne nods. “Good.”

They fall silent, for a while.

“I’m not attracted to you because you’re big. I’m attracted to you because you’re … well … you know. Because we –”

It’s a little sad, but that’s the least opaque thing Jaime has ever said to her. Actually admitting he’s attracted to her.

He’s embarrassed about it now, of course, getting up from the bed to bluster about the room, throwing wood on an already roaring fire, moving their clothes from the bed to the chair and then back again.

She watches him. He sees her watching. Makes a joke about the heat. Preens and poses and displays his nudity in a way he hopes will distract her.

It works, but only a little.

The next day, Brienne goes to the stores in the courtyard of Winterfell and finds a coil of rope. She puts it over her shoulder and carries it back to her room with a burning face. Everyone is looking at her, she thinks. Everyone knows. The Big Woman carrying rope – she must be going to tie the Kingslayer to her bed. Probably trying to stop him escaping her in the night. It’s probably the only way she can keep a man such as that. She can imagine the sniggers.

Even Jaime laughs, when he sees it.

“Is _all_ that for me?” he grins from the bed. Brienne’s not sure if he’s been there all day, or if he got back in to wait for her.

It is rather a lot of rope, really, she supposes. Probably enough to tie a dozen men to her bed, if she so wished.

Brienne undoes her shirt. Kicks off her boots. She hefts the coil of rope in both her hands and brings it to the bed.

He looks at it. He looks at her. He sits up, his back ramrod straight against the headboard.

“Now?” she asks.

“Well, it’s this or spend our evening in the Great Hall with the Starks,” he sniffs. “I hear Dimples is on fine form tonight.”

She scoffs. “Very well. What should I do?”

He’s looking at her like he’s thinking _filthy_ things. Up and down, the tip of his tongue running slowly between his lips.

Brienne doesn’t move. She holds the coil of rope.

“You should tie me to the bed,” he says after a moment. Once he’s realised she isn’t playing a game. That she really does want instructions.

“How?” she asks.

Jaime crosses his hand and his stump at the wrists in front of him. Holds them out to her.

Brienne lets the coiled part of rope fall to the bed. Wraps the end about his forearms several times. “How tight?” she asks.

“Tight,” he tells her. “If you want.”

It’s not about what she wants. She pulls the rope tight. Knots it. “Above your head?”

“I ... why not?” He’s still playing at nonchalance. Pretending this is her idea.

She loops the rope around the candle sconce above the bed and yanks on it until his arms are forced to stretch above his head. Brienne watches with a sort of fascination – his golden skin taut over the muscles in his arms. The heave of his ribs as he breathes.

“Is that all right? Not too tight?”

“Gods, were you a cheese wire in a former life?”

“I’ll undo it if it’s too tight, Ser?”

“It’s fine,” he whispers. His eyes are hot, his breathing quick.

She drops the rest of the rope to the floor. “What now?”

He dissembles for a moment, out of jokes, she thinks – out of pith and humour.

“Should I kiss you?” she suggests.

“Yes. If – if you wish.”

“If _I_ wish?”

He looks at her as if she’s being impossible. Sighs. “ _Please_ , my lady. Bestow your _blessed_ kisses on me.”

She tilts her head. “Jaime.”

“What?”

“I’m not playing a game. I’m asking what you want. Should I kiss you?”

He gives her that look, that one he does whenever she’s stripped him figuratively naked with her honesty, that one where he looks up at her with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. Here, naked in her bed, with his arms tied above his head, he can’t escape, not even with banter. He’s starting to realise, she thinks.

“I …” he swallows. “Yes. Please. Kiss me. Kiss me softly. The way you always kiss me.”

Brienne leans in. She presses a kiss to his lips, so soft it is almost chaste. The kiss he returns is warm and hungry, but it’s skittish. Tentative. Like he’s frightened to give her too much.

“And now?” she asks in a whisper. “What would you like now?”

“Take … maybe take your shirt off?” he breathes. He nuzzles her chin, his eyes closed.

Brienne stands up. The heat from the fire, the heat from his gaze, caresses her skin as she bares it for him. Opens the tie at her neck, pulls her tunic over her head. Beneath, she is bare-breasted, flushed, her nipples firm. Maybe not large, maybe not curvaceous, but this is her – this is the honest fact of her body.

Jaime’s eyes are huge and dark as he looks at her, his mouth open as if in awe. He looks wrecked.

She comes to him. Takes his face between both her palms and kisses him again.

“My arms hurt,” he whispers after they part.

Her hands go for the knot at his wrists, but he shakes his head to stay her.

“No. That’s not …”

“What?” she whispers. “Tell me.”

“Please. Just … hold me?”

She doesn’t understand, but she holds him, sliding her palms between his back and the headboard. Caressing his warm skin against the warm wood.

Jaime sighs. Drops his head to her shoulder and kisses her neck. Her collarbone. Nips her skin with his teeth and caresses her with the softness of his breath and his beard. “My arms hurt so much.”

She does not understand. Jaime’s arms hurt … yet he does not want her to untie him? She pulls back to look at his face and sees such yearning there, such need. What does Jaime want?

He clearly does not want her to hurt him – he has only asked for gentleness. He has asked her to kiss him, to show herself to him, then to hold him. He does not want her to hurt him.

Then it comes to her. Of course. This is what Jaime would want.

“Where – where do they hurt?” she whispers.

“My wrists,” he whispers. “My forearms. Where I’m tied.”

She nods. Lifts herself to her knees and brings her hands to Jaime’s arms. Presses into his wrists with her thumbs and rubs. Firm circles, working the muscles. Easing them, loosening the stiffness and the soreness.

Jaime groans. Yes. Yes. This is what he wants. He doesn’t want her to hurt him, he wants her to take care of him when he hurts. He wants from Brienne what only she has been able to give him … _care_. He wants to feel _loved_.

She lifts herself to her knees to press a kiss to his left forearm. Then the other, his right. She kisses all over the taut skin of that scarred arm, over his bunched muscles, up over the top of his stump. Kisses, kisses. Soft, sweet kisses. A promise and a thank you.

Jaime sighs. He leans forward too, straining against his ropes to place kisses of his own, soft ones, on her naked breasts. He rubs against her with his beard and his nose and his lips and his breath. That feels so good.

“I’m thirsty,” he whispers.

Brienne moves her lips from his arms to peer down at him. “Do you … want some wine?”

“Please. Yes. Wine would be appreciated.”

She fetches a glass. Pours wine from her jug and brings it to the bed.

Of course, trussed as he is, he cannot take the glass, so she holds the rim to Jaime’s lips, his eyes on hers. He drinks. Spills a little. Brienne mops it from his beard, from his chest.

“It feels sticky,” he complains. He’s playing a little, now. Having fun with it. But it’s honest nonetheless.

She raises an eyebrow. “And what would you like me to do about that?”

“Wash me? Perhaps? I don’t like to be sticky.”

They have a washbowl on the side – Brienne goes to it and wets a cloth in it. Wrings it out and brings it to the bed. Jaime watches her, his eyes dark with passion and alive with fun.

“Where are you sticky?” she asks.

“My beard. My chest. Where the wine spilt.”

She lifts his chin with a gentle finger, dabs at his beard. His lips. Runs the cloth down his chest in a slow trail. The water makes his chest hair damp and dark.

He hums and smiles, relaxing into her touch and allowing himself to enjoy it. “Mmm. You’re so good to me, Brienne.”

She smiles too. “Of course.”

“Better than a tarnished golden lion deserves.”

“No.”

“You _are_.”

“I’m … that’s just …”

 _Normal_ , she wants to say. Isn’t caring for someone that you love … _normal_? But how can she say that without saying the word “love”? Without invoking the malevolent shade that is Cersei?

Brienne splutters for a moment, feeling her cheeks heat up.

Jaime doesn’t reply. Instead, he strains against his bonds to kiss her so hard it feels as though he might devour her whole.

She wants him to. Gods, Jaime makes her so hot, like she’s boiling in her skin. He makes every part of her body come alive, tingling with feelings, physical feelings, feelings of the divine. How can she be better than he deserves? She didn’t know a man could make her body feel this way.

She shucks her breeches without breaking the kiss. She never wants to break this kiss. She wants the kiss to be forever, to hold Jaime as he needs to be held, to show him the sweet ache of how she feels without having to say the words.

“I think I’m _cold_ ,” he groans now, when he breaks for breath.

“What?” she pants, aroused and confused both. “You – you want me to put more wood on the fire?” She looks over her shoulder to see that the hearth is heartily ablaze.

“No,” he laughs. Grins at Brienne as if she’s the most innocent creature he’s ever beheld.

“What?”

“I’m cold, yes? So warm me up.”

“Oh!” She puts her hands on his arms again. Starts to rub him briskly.

To her mortification, he laughs again, harder this time. “Not – not really what I had in mind.”

“What, then?” she snaps.

He affects a face of deep concentration. Trust Jaime to find a way to even have fun with being honest. “You know, I think it’s my face that’s cold? I’m thinking that perhaps you have somewhere nice and warm I could put it?”

“What … you mean? That thing …?”

“That _thing_?”

“With your tongue. On my …” Brienne points at her lap.

“Yes. That’s the one.”

She looks at him, at his tethered arms. “While you’re tied? How in all the hells are we meant to do that?”

He shakes his head as if in despair. “You stand up. On the bed.”

Brienne looks at the bed. Looks at the ceiling. At the height of him, the positioning of his arms and his head and the height of herself and … well, _maybe_ she could get that part of her anatomy to his mouth? If she were to lean a little. Spread her legs? If he stuck his chin out a bit?

“I was thinking _tonight_ , perhaps, Ser?” he suggests.

She makes a face and clambers to her feet on the mattress, admiring the way he eagerly shifts and strains against his bonds.

His beard is still wet from the washcloth as he pushes it between her thighs, and gods, she almost falls on top of him at the first touch of his tongue. She has to lean over, grab the top of the headboard, brace her knees against his shoulders to stay upright.

She hears a muffled chuckle from between her legs, and then a rich hum of pleasure as he attacks her sex with abandon. Nudging her legs further apart with his face, getting at all the sensitive parts, subjecting them to that _thing_ he likes to do, that thing that Brienne had no idea existed before him, the one that feels like licking and sucking and teasing and tasting all at once. Right in that place that turns her inside out with pleasure. The one that makes her feel like a foolish girl but also _such a woman_ as well.

Oh, it’s torture. Sweet, sweet, torture … and all the worse because Jaime doesn’t have his hand to hold her against his face. All he has is that almost-almost-not-enough of his tongue, not-quite able to press hard enough, not quite long enough to reach.

He has her writhing against the wall, a hand fisted into his hair, the other clawing at the stone, at the headboard, at her own nipples, fervently hoping Lady Sansa isn’t in her chambers yet. There’s no way her lady would not hear her.

Jaime will be loving this. Jaime loves it when she’s loud.

She can’t do this, she can’t stand it. She’s going to split open like a waterskin, burst into wildfire, she’s going to … she’s going to …

Brienne comes. A bright punch of pleasure that erupts from her mouth in a wild wail. That burns and then wanes and then withers into soft, beautiful, blossoming pulses of bliss. Such bliss. Such bliss.

Her knees can’t hold her, she’s far too soft. She slides down the wall, Jaime kissing her belly and her breasts and her face as they pass his lips. Then somewhere in there, her mouth finds his, and she kisses the rich taste of herself off of his mouth.

He’s smiling. Proud of himself. Happy. So happy.

When she can walk, Brienne gets up. Finds the washcloth again and uses it to clean his face. Slowly, methodically, moving it in gentle circles on his cheeks, his mouth, his beard. She bends over him to kiss him, a slow, meandering slip and slide of tongues.

The washcloth slides down his chest. Over his belly. Her hand drifting absently.

He kicks the furs down.

“There’s another part of me that needs taking care of,” he whispers.

She turns her head to see his cock – hard and red and leaking. He flexes some muscle that makes it bounce as she watches. Makes himself laugh.

“Oh, does it?” she grins.

“Please,” he asks. “Take care of me.”

He does not ask often – not like that. There _is_ some element of control to this, Brienne sees—just a little. Perhaps even Jaime does not understand.

Brienne cups his cock in the wet washcloth – she thinks that isn’t entirely what he meant, but what is he going to do? He wants his hands tied, does he not? He wants taking care of?

He does not protest. Just looks at her with half-lidded eyes as she starts to wash his cock, a gentle drag of cloth on skin that makes him shudder.

She washes him – a loose grip, just the pull of the cloth and the water, just the slide of that thin sleeve of skin up and down his manhood.

Jaime moans her name. He tilts his head against the headboard. Closes his eyes. In his bonds, his left hand clenches on the stump of his right.

“You take such good care of me,” he moans. “So good. So _good_.”

“Of course I do,” she whispers. “I love you, Jaime.”

She hadn’t meant to say it. Not intentionally. It falls from her lips so easily though, so casual and so soft. But what is there to be afraid of? Of course that’s why she takes care of him. She loves him. She loves him. She loves him.

Why not?

“Oh, I love you too,” he moans, and then he’s pulsing in her hand, in the cloth, spilling his seed copious and white onto his belly. Brienne dips her head to lick it off, the way he does, its flavour warm and thick and bitter on her tongue.

“I love you,” he says again as he watches, panting as if winded.

She uses the washcloth to mop up the last drops of his spend. Tells him that she loves him, too.

She unties him, kisses the rope marks, rubs his aching shoulders, massages the blood back into his fingers. Then they lie together, naked and content, watching the snow-lit sky turn red over the battlements of Winterfell, where once they thought they’d die together.


End file.
